Catharsis
by peppermintwind
Summary: For Optimus Prime, who bears so many burdens already, the penance of pain can never be too much to ask. Warnings for physical and psychological abuse.


Title: Catharsis  
Warnings: Mild violence, psychological issues.  
Rating: PG, no actual nookie  
Disclaimer: Hasbro owns Optimus Prime and all the other Transformers body and soul. The poor lads.

Optimus Prime is weary... for a long time now, he has been weary, though it is apparent to none but you. He is tired of fighting, and he has sinned against the burdens he carries by wishing to be free of them, and it is for this reason and no other that he is before you now, with these words hanging in between you: "Beat me."

He says it like an order, superior to subordinate - firm, even-toned. His stance is a soldier's, braced for an attack even at rest, and the disconnect between the words and the person delivering them threatens to unbalance you. You back up, find something solid against your legs, and sink back gratefully. Then you tell him that you don't understand.

He repeats the words, slowly, softly, and somehow this tone is more terrifying than the parade bellow he uses to keep the more unruly element in line. You shake your head in protest, and suddenly he is on you, his energy flaring agitatedly against yours as he grips your shoulders hard enough to be painful. As you sit there, quivering, pinned, he presses his head to yours in silence. His aura ebbs and flows, searching and receding, and you reach up to trace the lines of his helm, as if through that gentle touch you could read his mind.

He speaks at last, and his words are awkward, halting, as if the language is unfamiliar to him. Several times he backtracks on himself, organizing and re-organizing as he attempts to explain what he himself does not fully understand - the ache that demands its physical counterpart, the desire to be punished and the terrible drive to punish himself, all the little painful shards of memory and loneliness and grief that makes him willing to beg for abuse. Beg he does - intersperced with all his self-recrimination and fumbling explanations are little fluttering words, _please,_ and _I need,_ and when he says your name it breaks you, because there is a note of desperation there, the voice of a being who has absolutely nowhere else to turn, save for oblivion.

You take his head between your hands, and he draws back to look at you, and for the first time you can read his expression - subtle shifts in the brightness of his optics - and it tells you that he is finally allowing himself to hope.

Your hand slips down and around the back of his neck, and he bends his head, little flurries of electricity dancing along his plating to sting your fingers. Your grip tightens reflexively and he moans, his voice soft, shaking with relief and gratitude a growing terror. "Trust me," you whisper, and he collapses into your lap, something like a choked sob escaping his vocorder. You lift your hand, watching his quivering back as his arms slip around your waist, and consider saying "I'm sorry," but you do not want to break his inward focus. Time enough to deal with your demons after you've dealt with his.

Your first strike makes him yelp into your lap, but beyond that he is silent, letting his shudders the harsh clatter of metal-on-metal speak for him. Your arm moves mechanically, apart from your conscious control, leaving you free to watch him as he surrenders himself to pain. Each successive hit makes his arms constrict around your waist, tighter and tighter, until you have to fight to keep from asking him to let go. He'll let go when he's ready, at his own pace; until then, let him deal his pain. It serves to equalize, making you co-conspirators rather than reluctant abuser and willing victim.

His arms slacken suddenly, and you slump over him in relief, smoothing your hands across his newly-formed dents. Fleetingly you wonder how he'll explain them to Ratchet, but he's shaking in your lap again, his vocorder flaring brokenly with static as he tries to gather enough control to form words. "Shh, it's all right," you whisper, guiding him up to the berth to lie beside you. "It's all right, Optimus." His trembling quiets, and his optics seek out yours, and you read gratitude in their jeweled depths before they darken, finally allowing him rest.


End file.
